


In Bloom

by playout



Series: The Sward of Gryffindor [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Flowers, Fluff, HP: EWE, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2015-01-12
Packaged: 2018-03-07 08:17:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3167927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/playout/pseuds/playout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco Malfoy, former Death Eater, promising young potioneer, and sworn enemy of Harry Potter, has a moment to stop and smell the roses, in a manner of speaking, at Neville Longbottom's garden shop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Bloom

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dysonrules](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dysonrules/gifts).



> I was inspired by the absolutely delightful body of work by dysonrules and her mild obsession with greenhouses as a romantic setting (she likes flowers). This bit of fluff is my gift and homage to her. Seriously, go read her stuff. This is my first fanfic; posting it publicly is a somewhat nerve wracking. I hope all six of you who happen to read it will enjoy! ;) 
> 
> All things Harry Potter belong to J. K. Rowling, of course. I am not profiting from the publication of this work.

Draco placed a small bag of galleons on the counter and waited impatiently for Longbottom to return with his order. He nearly stroked the fuzzy leaf of a friendly-looking plant by the till before he thought better of it. It seemed unlikely the proprietor would keep a dangerous plant out in the open where any unsuspecting customer could fall victim to it, but there was no accounting for Gryffindor idiocy and one run in with a particularly grabby clinging vine in the establishment was quite enough. Longbottom had giggled for three full minutes before relenting and releasing Draco from the clutches of the leafed menace.

Draco considered his gracious composure during the whole ordeal--he had only used the second and fifth worst insults he knew when scolding Longbottom after the fact and he was fairly sure his yelling could be heard no farther than three shops down--a feather in the cap of his reformation. Just three years after the unfortunate events of the war and Draco had already made a bit of a name for himself as a potioneer specializing in medicinal brews. In fact, if his latest experiment (a more potent version of the Wiggenweld Potion) was a success, he hoped to obtain an exclusive distribution agreement with St Mungos that would cement his status as the go-to brewer for medicinal needs in Wizarding London. Sterling compliance with the terms of his sentence, impeccable behavior during and after his year of house arrest, voluntary submission to an additional year of probation under Auror supervision, and frequent and generous financial contributions to an assortment of charitable organizations and war reparations efforts had done much to restore the Malfoy name. The testimony and support of one Harry James Potter, Super Auror, Boy-Who-Lived, and perpetual tormentor of Draco's peace of mind, certainly hadn't hurt, loathe as Draco was to admit it.

To say it had been a shock when said tormenter showed up uninvited and unannounced at the gates of the Manor at half eleven on the last day of Draco's confinement would be a tremendous understatement. Draco had had to fight through a panic attack upon being wakened by a house elf frantically announcing Potter's presence and his insistence on speaking to Master Draco regardless of the late hour and the fact Draco had been sleeping at the time. As he rushed to don a dressing gown and race down the grand staircase to the informal sitting room the elf had been directed to escort Potter to, Draco's mind whirred with horrific possibilities--Mother was hurt, something had happened to Father in Azkaban, the Wizengamot had revoked their lenient sentence and Draco would soon be joining Father on that ghastly island.

Draco arrived at the sitting room in record time, huffing like a freight train and with no thought to his appearance for once in his life. The rarity of such an occurrence might have explained the wide-eyed, slack-jawed gape that met him when he encountered Potter, perched casually on the arm of an antique settee that was probably worth more than the Auror's yearly salary. Not that Potter had much room to judge given the state of his attire--ratty trainers, holey denims, a faded muggle t-shirt, and the perpetually tangled mess he called hair.

" _Well_?" demanded Draco, near frantic with worry, while Potter continued to do his best impression of a brain damaged carp. "Oh, erm, uh...." Potter nervously wiped his palm on his thigh while Draco mentally rolled his eyes and cursed whichever Malfoy ancestor had displeased the fates enough to saddle Draco with the burden of his misfortune.

"Potter, so help me if this is a harebrained prank," Draco threatened, "I will hex you into non-existence. Azkaban be damned." His glare could have turned a regular fig into a shrivelfig. 

Potter's eyes widened once again behind his ridiculous round spectacles but he hastened to reply, "No, no! Not a prank! And I'm sorry I worried you and woke you up. Everything's fine." Draco nearly slumped with relief upon hearing those words, but unmitigated rage was quickly replacing the fear that had steeled his spine.

"Then what, pray tell, are you doing in my home in the middle of the night?" Draco carefully enunciated each word through clenched teeth. Mother had always warned him that such clenching would give him wrinkles, but some things couldn't be helped. Potter, at least, had the grace to look chagrined.

Apparently finding his misplaced courage, Potter produced a slender wooden box from behind his person. "I came to give you this. M'sorry it's a bit overdue," he mumbled. Heart suddenly in his throat, Draco reached to take the box. He found his hawthorn wand inside, nestled in rich burgundy velvet. Although Draco had strongly suspected the nature of the contents, actually seeing the dark wood and familiar knots of his wand was unexpectedly emotional. He couldn't resist casting a quick _Lumos_ , the first spell he had ever mastered. A rush of heady delight coursed through him at the brilliant responsiveness of the wand, so much better than his Mother's borrowed one. He had feared the hawthorn would no longer recognize him as its master after a stint with the Savior of the Wizarding World. After all, how could Draco compare? But his wand seemed as attuned to his magic as it ever was, to Draco's unending relief. He had harbored a secret fear that no wand would ever respond to him like his first and he felt a weight had been lifted from his shoulders at this revelation.

Suddenly remembering his audience, Draco tamped down on his embarrassing display of Hufflepuff sentimentality. He narrowed his eyes at Potter. "Why now?"

Potter shrugged. "Your house arrest is over now so I thought you might want it."

Draco scowled. "It never occurred to you that I might want _my_ _wand_ any time before now?" His tone was acid. Potter met him stare for stare.

"I was somewhat _busy_ for a while after I acquired it," Potter's expression practically dared Draco to comment, but he refrained, "...and then I sort of forgot about it."

Draco felt the sting of Potter's words. He may as well have said, "and then I forgot about you." But of course he did. He had spent the year after the Dark Lord's defeat being fêted as the Ministry's darling, the Golden Boy. Draco ought to thank his lucky stars (the ones for which he was named) that Potter had taken time out of his busy schedule of praise and adoration to testify on behalf of Draco and his mother. That testimony had been instrumental in obtaining their freedom from Azkaban.

Draco swallowed his pride. A bit seemed lodged in his throat as he forced out the words, "Thank you for returning it."

Potter was taken aback by Draco's unexpected graciousness, frozen in place for long moments. Then a smile split his face like a sunrise. He actually beamed at Draco, who was taken aback in turn. The corners of his mouth threatened to rise in answer but he fixed them into the classic Malfor sneer. "If that's all, then..."

Potter showed enough social awareness to realize he was being dismissed. He stood and rubbed the back of his neck. "Actually, I was wondering if you'd like to grab a pint." Draco's eyebrows shot skyward. Potter rushed on, "You know, to celebrate your freedom." Draco continued to stare, woefully unable to process and reply to the words he certainly must have misheard. "Um...I'll buy to make up for hanging onto you wand for so long?" Potter tugged on his fringe, clearly unsure how to handle Draco's apparent catatonia.

"I'm still under house arrest," was the feeble protest Draco managed after an indeterminate amount of time. He credited his rude awakening and the roller coaster of emotions he had experienced since then with his alarming lack of mental acuity. It most definitely had nothing to do with the distressingly attractive figure Potter cut in his sloppy muggle clothes or the not-at-all-endearing way he fidgeted when nervous.

Potter cast a tempus charm. "Only for ten more minutes," he countered, grinning cheekily, maybe hopefully. "It'll be over by the time you change." Potter nodded in the direction of Draco's dressing gown, which Draco fixed more firmly over his pyjamas. He suddenly felt vulnerable and out-of-sorts. "I'll wait here," Potter asserted, folding his arms and leaning against the settee once again. _Philistine_.

To his dismay, Draco could think of nothing to say to disabuse the speccy git of this strange notion, in spite of the fact it was most assuredly a terrible idea.

And that was how Draco ended up in a muggle pub in the middle of the night with his arch nemesis celebrating the end of a sentence he earned by fighting on the wrong side of the war against the man he now found himself sharing surprisingly pleasant conversation with. A generous supply of barely palatable ale might have had something to do with that.

Through a warm, fuzzy haze, Draco apologized for breaking Potter's nose, poisoning the Weasel, calling Granger a mudblood, and letting Death Eaters into the school. Potter, in turn, apologized for almost accidentally killing Draco in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom with a dangerous, unknown spell. Draco was feeling magnanimous so he decided to let bygones be bygones. He reminded Potter that he owed him a life debt for saving him from the fiendfyre. Potter countered with the debts he owed Draco and Narcissa for their both lying to save his life. Draco counter-countered with the debt the entire Wizarding world owed Potter for saving all their sorry arses and Potter said he'd heard quite enough about that and changed the subject to quidditch.

At some point in the wee hours of the morning, Draco expressed his despair of ever having a chance at redemption in the eyes of the public with his family name so sullied. It was Potter, displaying rather Slytherin cunning, who devised the scheme to request additional probation time of the Wizengamot as a show of Draco's good faith. He even generously volunteered to be the Auror responsible for Draco's accountability. Draco was touched. And also drunk.

So. Very. Drunk.

Draco was amazed some 33 hours and one nasty hangover later (thank Merlin, Circe, and Salazar for his special hangover potion--twice as effective and half as revolting as the traditional brew) he received an owl confirming Potter's assignment as his probation officer. He had been certain Potter would hastily back pedal from drunken promises made to a former Death Eater/sworn enemy once he sobered up. But, no, the noble Gryffindor had kept his word and made himself a fixture in Draco's life, with his weekly check ins and infrequent surprise visits to the Manor. He'd been a thorn in Draco's side ever since.

Longbottom roused Draco from his musing by dropping a sturdy crate filled with assorted potions supplies onto the counter. He placed Draco's coins in the till without bothering to count them (stupid Gryffindor), then said, "I just have to grab one more thing out of the greenhouse," before leaving again. Draco heaved a long-suffering sigh. He had other errands to run and had not budgeted to spend all day at the Sward of Gryffindor.

Longbottom returned a minute later with an armful of flowers. In fact, it was a gorgeous white and silver bouquet. And it was made up of Draco's favorite flowers no less. Draco was immediately suspicious. "What's that?" he asked without inflection.

"Oh this?" Longbottom began with a false air of nonchalance as he placed the bouquet in the crate with Draco's supplies. "My Hannah really outdid herself this time. Beautiful, isn't it?" He beamed with pride at the mention of his betrothed. "Narcissus, Iceberg Roses, Immortality Iris--"

"I know what the flowers are, Longbottom," Draco interrupted, the last thread of his patience snapped. "What are they doing with my order?"

"Why Harry asked me to include them. His galleons, of course." Longbottom all but winked at Draco; it rankled. "He mentioned that you may or may not enjoy flowers." The shopkeep had a much-too-knowing look in his eyes accompanied by his onmipresent idiotic grin.

Draco sniffed, "Did he now?"

Longbottom answered what was obviously meant to be a rhetorical question in the affirmative. Draco resisted insulting the man's intelligence but it was a near thing. Witless and irritating though he may be, Longbottom was a more than competent herbologist with fair prices and a respectable selection, and he treated Draco kindly in spite of their unpleasant history. That earned him a certain amount of leeway.

"Well, since _your Hannah_ put so much work into the arrangement," Draco thought he did an admirable job of not sounding blatantly sarcastic, "I suppose I can take it this time. In the future, however, please refrain from making any changes to my order that I did not explicitly request."

Longbottom huffed a laugh. "Of course, _Mr Malfoy_." He didn't restrain the sarcasm nearly as well as Draco, but Draco let the offense slide. The bouquet really was lovely and Draco was powerless against the fluttery feeling it inspired. He made a note to stop at the bakery on his way home to purchase a treacle tart. One Hufflepuff gesture deserved another, it seemed.

Draco would deny unto his dying day that a besotted look dared cross his patrician features in that moment, softening them into something resembling genuine affection, but Longbottom always insisted on telling the story that way. Never one to neglect an opportunity for a plant-based pun, Longbottom relished concluding his tale with the gag-inducing turn of phrase "love was in bloom."

The idiot may have been on to something.


End file.
